


An Extraordinary Encounter

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes meets the woman destined to be his wife under rather unusual circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

Well, this was an unfortunate turn of events.

Sherlock stared down at his side, watching as his white shirt and black jacket darkened quickly with his blood. 

The suspect, a panic-stricken servant, holding the inadvertent weapon, a letter opener, stared at Sherlock in horror. 

Around them, the formal carried on as if no one realised what was happening in the corner by the door to the Master’s hallway and office. 

To be fair, no one did. 

Suddenly, the pain hit Sherlock through his shock and he stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees. 

“I dinna mean ta-!” The servant stammered, oscillating between fleeing for his life and raising the alarm. 

Sherlock shot him a dirty look and pressed his hand to his side to try to stop the blood loss. Not a deep wound, but one that hurt like the dickens. And if he did not have John, or any bloody other doctor in this crowded dance hall, see to it promptly, he would pass out. 

A clattering of dishes crashing to the floor nearby coincided with him also falling supine, weak and beginning to shake. 

“John,” he groaned wimply, hoping that his friend was close by, but knowing he was probably out canoodling with Miss Morstan in the garden. 

Darkness began creeping in. 

So, this is how he dies. 

In a room with a hundred other people. Bleeding to death from a wound sustained because he surprised a teenager trying to pick a lock with a bloody letter opener. 

Mycroft would be so amused.

Then, from the fringes of unconsciousness, he heard the voice of an angel.

“Open your eyes!” 

A hand slapped his face and he wearily blinked his eyes open. 

A lovely woman was staring down at him. Her brown eyes sparked with worry, but she wore a determined frown. 

“Hold still, they’ve gone for a doctor.” She nudged him back down when he tried to sit up. It was then he noticed the pressure on his side and looked down his body to see that she had pressed a beautifully embroidered handkerchief against his wound, already stained red. Oh, good heavens, she had ripped open his shirt! Had he any blood remaining to rush to his face, he would have flushed like a schoolboy. 

“It’s not a deep wound, but you have lost quite a bit of blood. A couple sutures and some bed rest and you will be right as rain,” she said confidently and Sherlock knew she was trying to keep his attention so he didn’t pass out. Any other time, he would be annoyed. But her voice was soothing. 

She was young, about his age perhaps, but she was different. Not like the other simpering women that comprised the Ton. She had tossed propriety out the window the moment she opened his shirt and no other woman would dare risk staining their dress, especially not with blood. Yet here she kneeled in a small pool of his blood, one hand against his wound, the other alternating between stroking his face and slapping his cheek to keep him awake.

As the seconds stretched like hours, Sherlock found himself unable to focus on her words, but comforted by the sound of her voice. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Perhaps it was the loss of blood. Or perhaps he had found a woman as unique and extraordinary as he had never before encountered.

It seemed like hours until John pushed his way through the gathered crowd to tend to his friend. And when he took her place at Sherlock’s side, Sherlock tried to ask her to stay. But his voice failed him and she gave him a small smile before disappearing into the crowd. 

He tried to sit up, to follow her, but collapsed back down with a pained groan. 

“I can’t leave you alone for a moment,” John grumbled.

The doctor moved the soiled handkerchief out of the way and pressed a clean one against the wound before motioning for several of the servants to assist him in carrying Sherlock to his surgery down the street. 

Sherlock grabbed the handkerchief with shaking hands before they could dispose of it. Stained red with his blood, it would be of no use no matter how arduously one tried to launder it. 

But he could still make out the simple, but precise, embroidered initials in the corner. 

M.E.H.

As they shifted him onto a makeshift stretcher of bedclothes pulled taut, he closed his eyes.

_I will find you again._


	2. A Captivating Case

He hated this. The noise. The  _people_. God, when had he become his brother?

Sherlock scowled as he surveyed the room from the wings. Whether he was annoyed by the crowd of dancing ninnies or the fact that he just quoted to himself something Mycroft had once said, he had no care to question.

He was the talk of the Ton, though he did not care in the least. The aloof, unusual, unattainable detective rarely appeared at social events and to see him skirting the edges of the dance rooms so frequently as of late was causing quite the stir. Young women in pursuit of a husband took to batting their eyes at him across the room, their hair styled to ridiculous proportions. The young men, however, were more than disgruntled by the distracting detective.

But one glare, or well-worded deduction, sent them all scurrying away.

This was the seventh formal he had attended in as many weeks and his patience, limited though it was to begin with, was nearly at an end.

The mysterious M.E.H., the woman who had saved his life, had not appeared once. He stayed for hours, searching every face that passed for the brown eyes that shone with compassion, determination, and intelligence. Every brunette he glimpsed in the corner of his eye caused his heart to skip a beat in anticipation.

But it was never her.

And now they had circled back to the same estate as the night of the incident. The hour was growing late and there had been not a sign of his mysterious saviour. Sherlock fought down the defeat that threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled from his pocket the soft handkerchief he kept always in his breast pocket. The white fabric was permanently stained by his blood, cleaned as best as his housekeeper could do. He rubbed his thumb over the embroidered letters in the corner. The M.E.H. that had haunted him for months, the simple, lovingly stitched initials would be forever branded in his memory.

Watson had accused him of falling victim to romantic sentiment. Perhaps he had. Else why would he continue to search for her, all the while enduring Watson’s endless gloating and mindless crowds of people?

If he ever found her, he would make sure she never slipped away from him again.

From the corner of his eye, he saw flash of brown.

Raising his eyes in expectation of disappointment, he looked over at the refreshment table.

A young woman, in a soft cream dress under a black apron, was swiftly and efficiently clearing the used plates, putting the spread back to rights. Her brown hair was braided and wound in a simple bun beneath a starched, white cap.

Sherlock straightened and ran his gaze over her. Her eyes were down, intent on her work. A maid, then. Had he not been attuned to the sight of brown hair, he might have missed her in the crowd. She was efficient in her work, gathering the discarded plates and cups of punch, and slipped through the people back toward the kitchens. All without being noticed by a single guest.

Except Sherlock.

He wasted not a moment and hastened to follow her, his heart pounding.

In the hall, various guests loitered in loud clusters and he shoved through them without a word of apology, never letting the petite maid out of his sight. Men and women cried out at being jostled but their protests fell on deaf ears.

The maid ducked out of the hall through a door near the back of the manor, no doubt leading to the servant wing and kitchens. Sherlock quickened his pace and, glancing around to make sure the guests had resumed their inane conversations, slipped through the door. As it shut behind him, the noise of the guests instantly grew muffled and distant in the quiet corridor.

At the far end, heels clacking on the wood floor, she turned the corner. Sherlock cautiously followed, ears attuned for any servants who might catch him. As he drew closer, he picked up the sound of running water, the gentle clash of silver against silver, and the scent of a combination of different foods, savory and sweet.

“Thank you, Molly. Set them there by the sink and I’ll have Sarah wash them as soon as that lazy girl comes back from wherever she’s snuck off to,” a rough voice was saying, no doubt the cook.

_Molly_. Sherlock grinned widely. It had to be her, his M.E.H. He had finally found her. All the pieces of the puzzle he’d been missing fell into place. Of course she hadn’t been in attendance at any other dances, she was a servant. A maid in this household who had been in the right place all those months ago and saved his life. Her disregard for propriety as she’d torn open his shirt to stop the bleeding (a memory that still brought a blush to his face). She had not blinked or turned away or swooned ridiculously like a lady of high society would have at the sight of a man’s chest, let alone an injury of that magnitude.

“That will be enough from you, young lady.”

“I don’t mind, Helen.” Her voice was soft and sweet, but Sherlock heard the underlying determination.

“I know you don’t but I swear if you put one finger in that dishwater I’ll take a switch to your backside,” the cook threatened lightly, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Let one of the other maids do their share and clean up.”

Molly laughed, her voice louder as she walked back his way. “Very well. But only because I’m too tired to argue.”

Sherlock glanced around quickly and ducked into a nearby room, leaving the door cracked open just enough to peer out. He heard her footsteps before she appeared, hands behind her back as she untied her apron. No other steps sounded. She was alone.

Just as she passed, he stepped out into the hall. “Hello.”

Molly spun around with a gasp, clutching the apron to her chest. Her eyes widened in recognition as she took him in and a dark blush stained her cheeks.

“Oh! I-it’s you,” she stammered breathlessly.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Molly.”

Her blush deepened and he smiled, enjoying the way her name sounded on his lips. He stepped closer. He kept his smirk in check when she didn’t move away as proper etiquette would dictate.

“It’s been quite a mystery, trying to find you again. All I had was this.” He brought out the blood-stained handkerchief.

“You kept it?” She asked in wonder, reaching out to brush her fingers along the edge of the cloth.

“Of course.”

Her eyes found his again.

“You saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you.”

She looked down at her hands, her lips twisting in a smile. “Well, I could hardly have let you bleed out on Lady Smallwood’s floors.”

His laughed softly.

“I am glad,” she said seriously and peered up at him through her lashes. “That you are alive and well. London needs Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I need you.” The words fell from his lips before he could think. But they were true.

She blanched. “B-but you don’t even know me.”

“I’d very much like to, though.” He captured her hand and brought it to his lips in a reverent kiss. He forced himself not to linger lest he forget himself and give in to the temptation to steal her lips.

From the kitchen there was a crash of dishes and a shout from the cook, breaking the solitude they’d been enjoying and they both jumped. As if realising herself, she took a step back to put a more respectable distance between them. He reluctantly let her go, but he could still feel the phantom warmth of her hand on his tingling skin. “221B Baker Street. Tomorrow morning.”

Her gaze followed him as he moved past her toward the door, knowing their stolen time was nearly at an end.

“Good night, Mr Holmes.” It was quiet, a breath almost stolen by the night. But he heard it.

He looked over his shoulder, his hand resting on the doorknob. Her shy smile as she stood there in the middle of the lamplit hallway made his heart skip a beat. He tipped his head and answered her smile with one of his own. “Until tomorrow… _Molly_.”


End file.
